


Shield of Bullets

by Andromaca



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Getting Together, Hand Jobs, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, alternate universe - cowboys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-28
Updated: 2019-01-20
Packaged: 2019-09-28 23:28:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17192219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Andromaca/pseuds/Andromaca
Summary: Against all odds, Connor ends up falling for a hard-boiled outlaw with a heart of gold, Hank.





	1. Part I

**Author's Note:**

> [now complete with beautiful western connor art by my best friend :D](https://twitter.com/cookiesandbeams/status/1099616025966858240?s=21)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i did to make this fic as historically accurate as i could, but as it turns out, italian history classes did not, in fact, ever prepare me to write cowboy au fics and researching is so boring when it’s having to google every single detail of your story, and anyway i know we’re all pretty much here just because we want hank and connor to kiss while riding horseback into the sunset. right? am i wrong? well, if that’s what you’re here for, don’t worry, we’ll get there. enjoy this!  
> (and since december is almost over and we’re approaching the new year, i feel like i just have to do this:  
> this goes out to everyone who’s made 2018, the worst year of my life, a little better. if you’re reading this, you know who you are.  
> P.S.: sara, don’t hold it against me, but maybe i don’t hate hankcon so much.)

Hank Anderson is not a good person by any means, but people generally fall into two categories: you’re either rotten to the core, or you salvage some of the humanity you suppose you have in yourself and help people out from time to time. Hank, an old man well past his prime, rough around the edges and hardened by experience, guesses that if he really has to belong in one of them, he’d fit into the latter.

A cry for help makes its way in his path — who is he to not listen to it?

In his years, Hank has learnt that screaming in the woods, when it’s just little far off from the nearest town, is common occurrence, and for the most part it’s followed by a high pitched burst of laughter belonging to a woman in her younger years being chased by her forbidden lover. But there is a difference from the screams of faux terror coming from a couple having fun, and the sound of a gun being fired followed by muffled whimpering and a laugh, cruel at someone’s expense.

Hank’s horse tenses up. Hank pats him tenderly, and mumbles a quiet apology as he dismounts and makes his way towards the lantern deeper in the woods that casts shadows everywhere on the trees nearby. In walking closer to the lightsource, Hank makes out the shapes of three young men in a circle around a tree where a young woman in a ruined dress is bound, a dirty piece of cloth tied around her mouth keeping her from outright screaming.

Hank doesn’t need to listen to what the men are saying, he steps up behind them and clears his throat. A young woman with heavy ropes cutting into her skin — to Hank, that’s enough to call for an intervention. If  _she'_ s actually the problem and the men holding knives around her are doing the right thing, well, Hank guesses he’ll cross that bridge when he comes to it. For now, he settles for asking, “What’s going on here?” and then, with a nod to the girl, “Are you alright, miss?”

“Beat it, old man,” one of the men says, the one closest to Hank, “This ain’t your business.”

“And what business involves tying a lady to a tree?” Hank asks, but he doesn’t need an answer. “ _You _ beat it.”

None of the men back down. “Or?” says the man closest to Hank, again.

Hank doesn’t flatter himself with titles, has never really cared about his reputation either. He simply rides his horse Sumo, a gift from an old friend, and goes wherever adventure, or the promise of a reward for bounty hunting, takes him. He doesn’t brawl or rob other lowlives for a living, he doesn’t turn against his own people. He gets drunk on the regular, but is never a patron that’s hard to deal with. He keeps to himself, he rides alone, he doesn’t engage in petty fights. He’s not the fastest, most authentic American gunslinger and he’ll probably never go down in history as one of the most famous cowboys ever, but that doesn’t make him half bad handling a gun.

Hank puts his hands on his hips, pulling his coat back just slightly, his holsters and his revolvers peeking out a bit. He taps his white hat, and then says, “Or things are gonna get nasty. Don’t let my clothes fool you; I ain’t afraid to get some blood on my hands.”

One of the men, the one next to the tree trunk this time, takes a step forward and says, “It ain’t worth it. Let’s go, Charles.”

Charles shuts the man up. He doesn’t divert his gaze from Hank’s eyes, not even as he also puts his hands on hips, and a cocky, overly confident smirk plays at his lips. Hank wants nothing more than to put a bullet inbetween his eyes. And does he have to hold back, when  _Charles_ says, “No, we ain’t done with the  girl yet,” and almost reaches for his gun?

Whether he has to or not, that’s up to someone else to decide, because either way, he doesn’t. His hand is faster with experience and muscle memory, and the man lies dead on the dirty, muddy ground well before his gun is even out of its holster. Hank looks at the other two men, paralyzed in disbelief, and thinks, _Better safe than sorry_ , as he plants a bullet in each their heads as well. It’s not like the world will particularly miss this scum.

The lady’s whimpering sends Hank to retrieve his haunting knife to cut down the ropes binding her wrists together, and the ones holding her body to the tree behind her back. With gentle hands, he undoes the knot in the cloth on the back of her head, and as he sets her down in a sitting position, he asks, “Are you alright, miss?”

“Yes, sir, for the most part,” she says as she rubs at her wrists, out of breath and in a deep voice, high for a boy, but boyish nonetheless, “And please, call me Connor. Connor Stern.”

He must notice Hank’s confused expression, and with red cheeks and averted eyes he says, shyly, “Rescuing a boy won’t be a problem, I hope.”

Hank’s dumbfounded, and his mouth possibly opens a little as his eyes skim over Connor’s face; his big, brown eyes, the curve of his lips... he’s pretty, clean shaven, and he makes for a very convincing girl with a wig on his head and when wearing a dress. But as he stares at Connor more intently he realizes that had he paid more attention to him before, well, before engaging in a shootout with his kidnappers, he would have realized his mistake sooner.

Does it make a difference? A good action is a good action. He wasn’t planning on having the girl he just rescued from certain torture and possible death repay him with sexual favors, anyway. “It’s not,” Hank says, “I’m Hank. Hank Anderson.”

“Thank you, Mr. Anderson,” Connor says with reverence, but his expression turns sad as he breaks eye contact and continues, “I have no money I can repay you with. And I’m a long way from home.”

Hank offers Connor his hand to take for leverage to get up, and whistles for Sumo to come closer, “Ain’t no problem, kid,” and he gets up on his horse before helping Connor up as well, “So am I.”

* * *

“You can ask,” Connor says, when Hank notices that he’s stopped shaking, now that they’ve put enough distance between themselves and the three corpses, “If there is anything you’d like to know about me.”

Hank refrains from outright blurting out a rude  _ Hell, no_, because what Connor was doing before Hank came to rescue him or before he was kidnapped, well, that’s his own damn business and not Hank’s. But curiosity keeps him from biting his tongue, and asks, “Why’re you dressed like a girl?”

Hank wonders if perhaps he should have approached the subject a little more tactfully. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“It’s fine, sir, I told you you could ask questions, didn’t I?” Connor says, tensing up a little behind Hank’s back.

“Drop the “sir,” alright, kid? There ain't no need for formalities.”

“Yes, Mr. Anderson.”

They don’t say anything else after that, simply bask in the companionable silence. They’ve long been riding out of the woods and on a green plain, the quiet of it occasionally disrupted by a lone owl singing into the night or by the sounds of smaller critters running through the tall grass. Hank relies on Sumo for always spotting danger long before he himself does; it figures then that as long as Sumo’s comfortable with the sounds of the night, so is Hank, and if he hears the crack of a tree branch or suspicious steps in their direction while Sumo trots on, unbothered, Hank just relaxes, and busies himself with looking up at the starry sky above him or at the scenic landscape surrounding him.

Connor, way less used to the more rural parts of the country than him, merely follows what Hank does, and doesn’t let anything rattle him, even when his heart is still hammering in his chest.

“They thought I was a sodomite,” Connor says, finally. “I imagine this is what they thought was fitting punishment.”

You think you’ve seen everything, and you think you understand your fellow humans’ morality and you loathe them for it. “Good Lord,” Hank says, and he doesn’t bother to hide his disgust, “Are you?”

“Such a question is hardly appropriate, Mr. Anderson.”

“Listen, kid,” Hank says with a laugh, “Those weren’t the first men I’ve killed. They probably won’t be the last. I have met some real bastards in my life; none of them I ever called a bastard because they laid with other men, but because they were bad people.”

Connor keeps silent.

“I’m saying, I don’t care what you do... long as you don’t cause me problems, I ain’t gonna judge you. It ain’t my place to do that,” Hank says, and then pats Sumo’s neck before pulling the reins and dismounting. “We should camp here, kid.”

Connor doesn’t dismount before snapping his head towards Hank and asking, “Why?”

“It’s not wise to keep riding now, and I dunno about you, but I sure as hell am tired,” he explains, patting down the bedroll and then bending to pick up a few bigger rocks for the fire, “We’ll keep going tomorrow. You haven’t even told me where you want me to take you.”

Connor dismounts as well, his left hand coming up to caress Sumo’s side gently. “The nearest stagecoach station, if possible,” he says, quietly.

Hank shrugs. “Yeah, I’ll take you to the nearest station. It’ll be a half day ride though.”

Connor sits down on the bedroll, which Hank has implied to be for him the second he shed his coat in favor of putting it on the ground in front of the fire and laid on it. He pulls at the hem of his dress: it’s tight, and the corset has been digging into his skin for hours now, and the added discomfort of his clothing does nothing to stop the tears from falling from his eyes when he thinks that he misses home, and he misses his neatly folded dress shirts and freshly changed bed linens and food that isn’t canned.

His hand runs over his cheeks in an attempt to wipe away his tears, but the second his face feels dry, he takes a deep breath and he’s reminded of where he is, and a jolt of pain runs through his body at the corset constricts his breathing, and another one rolls down.

“Woah,” Hank says when he notices, “You okay?”

Connor sniffles. “No,” he answers, and he turns around, fingers pointing in the general direction of the corset’s laces, “Would you help me get out of this?”

Hank mumbles something that vaguely resembles a  _Sure_ , and kneels by where Connor is sitting. He’s staring for a moment before he admits, “I ain’t too sure what to do with this.”

“Just— rip it, or cut it, I don’t care—” he says, slightly more agitated than he was before, “Just get it off, please.”

Hank reaches for his hunting knife, and as carefully as he can as not to cut into the fair skin of Connor’s back, he slowly frees Connor of his restraints.

Connor sighs then, and then Hank notices that he’s sobbing, hunched over and away from him. Hank pats Connor’s shoulder, and takes off his own shirt to give it to him. “You need this more than me,” he justifies, when Connor looks up at him with a questioning look in his big, doe eyes.

It was obvious even before Connor put the shirt on it wasn’t going to fit properly; it’s loose on Connor’s lithe body, which Hank can see clearly now that he’s rid of unnecessary frills and lace, but he doesn’t complain and instead gives Hank a warm smile with a quivering lip, and goes to lay on the bedroll, relaxed now that’s he wearing clothes that are considerably less uncomfortable, clothes that don’t remind him of the awful events that have transpired a few hours prior.

Hank’s on the verge of falling asleep, when Connor says in a quiet voice, “I was an artist. The folk in town never liked me much because of how I lived. I’m from a rich family; I was only there to see the countryside from a closer perspective.”

“Sleep, Connor,” Hank dismisses him, “Big day tomorrow.”

Hank hears the rustling of fabric as Connor shifts position, “Goodnight, Mr. Anderson.”

* * *

Connor wakes up the following morning to the sound of Hank’s soft singing and of water flowing through the nearby river. The sun is already up in the sky, and Connor notices as he rises to his feet that the campfire has already been put out. Hank’s sitting on the edge of the shallow river, his feet dangling in the water and his boots laying discarded in the grass next to him, and he sings,  _ I kiss the dear fingers, so toil worn for me_. “Morning,” he says in a gruff voice, and raises the can he’s holding in Connor’s general direction, “If you’re hungry, I’ve got some more in my bag.”

Connor accepts with a smile Hank can’t see, and rummaging around Hank’s bag he finds a spoon that’s questionably clean, but with a shrug Connor goes to sit by Hank.

The silence is broken by Hank’s tone of disbelief when he says, “You’re not wearing pants.”

Connor blushes, and rests his hands in his lap in bashfulness. “Well, I wasn’t wearing anything beside that dress and underwear when you found me last night.”

Hank sighs, and eats another spoonful of canned fruit. “You can have my other pair. You ain’t decent to go around dressed like... that.” That, being solely wearing a dirty dress shirt too big for him, and the drawers underneath it.

“Thank you, Mr. Anderson,” Connor says, resuming his breakfast.

The ride to the station goes by uneventfully. Connor tries to make small talk, Hank tries to be as polite as possible in his replies, but ultimately nothing of relevance is said, and they encounter no problems on their route.

The station sits in the middle of nowhere, a rundown windmill nearby and railway tracks along with a ticket booth the only indication of civilization. A man sits on a bench near the tracks, and he responds with a polite nod when Hank tips his hat ever so slightly to him. The stagecoach driver looks up from his newspaper, annoyed at the prospect of having to do his job, and he mutters a weak and bored  _Howdy_ when he notices Hank and Connor approaching.

They leave Sumo at the nearest hitching post. Hank helps Connor dismount, walks by him towards the nearest stagecoach proper, and gives a warm smile before patting his shoulder a little too forcefully and saying, “Well, kid. You take care now.”

Connor smiles too, a little forced, but Hank doesn’t think much of it as he turns his back and starts to make his way back to his horse. All in all, Hank thinks, he’s had worse company; Connor seemed fine, a pity Hank isn’t much of a people’s person and that Connor had to go so soon, keeping their acquaintance short but sweet. Had life been different for either of them, Hank’s sure he would have liked to get to really know Connor, but alas.

Sumo notices Hank’s alone when he comes back, and as far as a horse’s expressions go, he seems relieved to realize that he won’t have to carry two people, but just one. “That it, boy,” Hank murmurs to Sumo, “Just you and me now.”

The sound of a throat-clearing cough comes from behind Hank, and he turns with a startle. Connor stands behind Sumo, all his belongings — the clothes he has on, and nothing else — with him. “Uhm, Mr. Anderson, sir,” Connor says, shyly, “I don’t suppose I could ask one last favor of you.”

“Shoot. I’m all ears.”

“Stagecoach driver asked me to pay the fare in advance but... you know, I’m without money. Do you think...” Connor trails off; Hank’s already laughing by the time he even so much as utters the word “money,” and loudly at that; the man sitting on the bench gives them both a look of curiosity. “It wouldn’t be for free,” Connor adds, quickly, mildly put off by Hank’s exaggerated reaction, “I’d be sure to reward you handsomely should you ever stop by Detroit.”

“You’re mighty funny, kid, I’ll give you that,” Hank says through bouts of laughter, “But if you believe I have the money you’re looking for, well, then you’re also a fool.”

“Do you not— have any money? At all? What about the bank?”

“What about it?” Hank’s brow furrows with amusement, “Who do you think I am, the fucking president? I don’t have money in the fucking bank.”

Hank can tell Connor feels like crying: his lip quivers a bit and his eyes become glassy, but Hank has no way of knowing for certain whether Connor really does cry or not, because he puts his arm in front of his face for a handful of seconds, takes a deep breath that makes his shoulders rise, and when his arm is back at his side where it should be, Connor looks at Hank with an air of resolve. “It’s okay, it’s no problem. Surely there’s a way I can find some money to pay for a ride to Detroit.”

“Sure,” Hank says, with a shrug of his shoulders feigning disinterest, “How good are you at poker?”

Connor sputters, goes red in the face — Hank has half a mind to ask if he’s okay. “Gambling is illegal!”

“Yeah,” Hank raises an eyebrow, “So is shooting three men in the head and then running away horseback, but I ain’t hear a word of it last night.”

“That is— an entirely different situation!”

Hank shrugs. “Eh, is it?”

Connor doesn’t have a retort for that.

“Listen, kid. Poker might be your best shot right now, if you wanna make some money fast,” Hank explains calmly, “It’s either that, or finding an honest job and waiting to cash in the paycheck. Your pick.”

Connor kicks a few stones as he ponders whether or not he should listen to Hank’s words. There is no honest way to go about making easy money, he supposes, and as he kicks one last stone and some dirt, he says, “I’m not good at poker. I’ve never played before in my life.”

Hank sighs, and motions for Connor to climb Sumo alongside him.

* * *

A few rounds into the game, and Hank’s managed to gamble away food provisions that normally last him a week, his watch, which was by no mean valuable but was still better than nothing, and he only barely manages to salvage Sumo by giving up his cards and leaving the game. Connor sits in a corner away from the table Hank’s playing at, the playful mood of the saloon not affecting him in the slightest as he blends into the ratty wallpaper with a sour expression on his face and a glass of room temperature water in front of him.

Hank gestures to Connor to come closer as he walks to the counter, asking the barkeep for something Connor can’t make out. He complies, and as he stops next to Hank, he says, apologetically, “Sorry, kid, as it turns out, I’m not as good as I thought I was.”

Outside, they walk side by side at a leisurely pace, looking for a place fit for camping and outside town, with Sumo following suit.

In a random bout of humanity, Hank wonders if he should try and console Connor, or at least make some small talk to alleviate some of the tension in him, and then corrects and scolds himself for having turned soft. “Why’re you still with me, anyway?” he asks, perhaps a little rude.

Connor, for his part, walks with his head down, carefully stepping through tree branches and smaller wood logs, silent save for the occasional sigh involuntarily slipping from his sealed lips. He sighs at Hank’s question as well. “You’re the first one to show me kindness in weeks, Mr. Anderson,” he explains, “If I’m intruding, you should let me know.”

Neither utters a word as they set up camp.

Hank doesn’t go to bed right away. He looks around his saddlebag for a flask in particular, and sits next to the campfire looking pensive and mysterious when bathed by the orange light of the fire. Connor observes him from the opposite side.

Hank tips his flask in Connor’s general direction. “You want some?” he asks.  _Why not?_ , Connor figures as he gets up and goes to sit next to Hank.

Connor takes a sip, but spits it right out, even after trying to swallow it down out of sheer politeness. “My Lord, this tastes so foul. What is it?”

Hank laughs. “That’s one way to thank the man offering you the best moonshine in the country. A dollar, this much,” and he gestures to the small bottle he holds in his hand.

“That is, quite possibly, the worst thing I’ve ever put in my mouth, in my entire life, I swear.”

“And you’d know, huh,” Hank teases, “About putting  _ things _ in your mouth?”

It takes a second to sink in, but when it does, Connor remains silent. Hank scratches his neck bashfully then, and blames the alcohol if the heat in his cheeks shows in form of a light blush. “Sorry, kid,” he says, after a while.

“Don’t be,” Connor says, “You’re right. I  _am_ a filthy degenerate after all.”

Hank scrunches up his nose. “I told you, I ain’t gonna judge. I don’t care.”

When Connor speaks again, Hank hears the break in his voice, and when he turns, he sees the tears rolling down his cheeks. He looks entirely vulnerable, and Hank can’t exactly tell why he wants to keep Connor around even when it’s clear that there is little he can do to help him, or that they aren’t compatible in the slightest, leading completely opposite lifestyles. “They burned down my house, the townsfolk. It wasn’t much,” he sniffles, stifling a sob and sighing, “But it was mine. I’ve never been away from home before. Now, God knows if I’ll ever make it back.”

Hank blames his instinct, the alcohol, the overprotective flare he knows he has in himself — he blames everything but his own self as he scoots closer to Connor, and rubs a big, calloused and scarred hand on his back as he cries harder in his half embrace. “There you go. Let it all out.”

Connor calms down, eventually. He rubs at his eyes to dry the tears and gives Hank a weak smile as he relaxes his posture. Hank’s hand still rubs at Connor’s back, even now that he’s stopped shaking. “Thank you, Mr. Anderson. I don’t imagine I would have made it out of the woods two nights ago if it hadn’t been for you.”

“Don’t mention it, son,” Hank says, vaguely dismissive, “I still have some good in me, it seems.”

“You’re a good man, Mr. Anderson,” Connor continues, “I know you are.”

“You don’t know me at all,” Hank scoffs.

“I know just enough.”

* * *

On the second day in town, Hank doesn’t talk much. He skips the game taking place at the saloon in favor of walking around with a look on his face that says he has a purpose, that tells people to keep out of his way because he has places to be and business to tend to, but the more Connor observes, the more he thinks Hank looks like he has no idea where he’s going or what he’s doing and is just playing it by ear. Connor can’t blame him; he imagines Hank’s never been to the town they’re staying at either, but while Hank’s idea of reconnaissance consists of aimlessly wandering through the mostly-deserted streets, Connor lags a little behind, secretly taking peeks through the dusty, dirty windows of the shops they pass, wondering if perhaps the answers to his problems lie inside one of them.

The townsfolk aren’t friendlier than the people of the town Connor was living in; though both Hank and Connor wonder if there really is a place in America, or in the whole world for all that matters, where your neighbor is always kind to you, with no backstabbing purpose hidden behind the nice façade, and because they realize they’re outsiders here, they hold no resentment when one of the residents gives them a particularly nasty side-eye.

Drunks litter the broad streets with their presence, and Connor feels nothing but disgust at the smell of alcoholic puke left to bake in the summer sun. “Some Sunday morning, huh?” Hank tries to joke when he notices Connor’s scrunched up nose. Connor doesn’t grace him with a reply.

The whole town looks  _decrepit_ ; cracks run through walls in the buildings, and it’s not uncommon to step on the stray, already broken roof tiles that lay practically everywhere on the non-paved road. Connor kicks pieces of bricks with every step he takes, and along with them, dust, and he fleetingly thinks that he should take the chance today to wash his boots in the river that flows outside of town.

They’re back at the spot they camped in the night before right as the sun begins to set, after spending a longer time in the saloon drinking than they have spent investigating the town. Hank takes a couple of cans out of his bag —  _Beans again, it seems_ , Connor thinks with a sigh — and they both set to eat while facing each other and making small talk on what they’ve seen during the day, occasionally laughing at Hank’s jokes demeaning the  _respectable_ fellas they’ve encountered so far or at Connor’s bewildered expressions as he recalls particularly revolting details from their walk.

“Say,” Hank says after a particularly contagious bout of Connor’s laughter, “Have you noticed the bank today while walking, kid?”

Connor waves his hand dismissively. “Please, stop calling me ‘kid’, will you? I’m 31, and my name is Connor.”

“Alright, and you drop the Mr. Anderson. Call me Hank.”

“Deal.” Connor says, and then, “And yes, I’ve seen the bank. What about it?”

“ _ What about it? _ ” Hank mocks, “The bank has money, Connor.”

Connor’s gasp sounds way more shocked than it did the time Hank proposed they play poker to try and scam some fool out of their money the day before, but Hank simply shrugs and puts on a playful smile. “Murder is fine, but bank robbing is where you draw the line... you’re one weird fella, Connor.”

“A man has got to have some values to live by, some rules. The men who took me, the other night... they weren’t unlike savages. I shouldn’t stoop so low as to steal from the innocent to get back at them.”

“It’s not to get back at them... it’s getting back at a morally corrupt society. A society that took from you first.”

“I have a feeling you wanting to rob that bank is not entirely for my only benefit,” Connor says, matter-of-fact-ly, “And I also have a feeling you haven’t always been an outlaw either.”

“Yeah, well, Connor,” Hank says as he gets up and lays his jacket on the grass near the fire to sit on it, and Connor can tell something has changed a little in his demeanor, “I _have a feeling_ you should mind your own damn business, and I  _have a feeling_ that we don’t rob that bank, and we’ll starve. Choice is yours.”

Connor doesn’t manage to get a word in before Hank is laying down, giving Connor his back, showing clearly that the conversation’s over for him. Connor sighs.

* * *

Hank notices things, it’s in his nature: it’s perhaps some remnant of his past life, some faded memory of the man he once was. The kind of memory he’s long left behind.

It’s perhaps the reason his eyes wander over the graceful figure of Connor’s naked body while he washes himself best he can in the flowing river; his clothes hang over a filmsy rope tied to two lower branches of a nearby tree, wet, to dry, and his boots under them. Hank can’t distract himself from it, and while his hands work the guns he’s handling expertly, his attention is somewhere else, rapted by the way Connor bends his knees gives Hank, albeit involuntarily, a perfect view of the plump, soft flesh of his backside and of the sturdy muscles of his back flexing.

Hank thinks that he shouldn’t be looking, that he should give Connor the privacy of bathing with no foreign eyes focused so intently on himself, but he can’t stop, and so he watches with captivated attention while he can, and looks away blushing when Connor turns to walk ashore and get at the very least his drawers to wear.

Connor sits down on a boulder next to Hank and the tree where his clothes are, and gently makes Hank aware of his presence with a soft, “I’ve given this a lot of thought.”

“To what?”

“To what you proposed last night,” Connor says, and with a sigh, he adds, “You may be right. This might be the best course of action... considering our position.”

Hank snorts. “And what’s our position?”

“Broke, owning only one set of clothing each, hungry, and dirty.”

Hank keeps his eyes on the gun in his hands while he speaks, the gun he’s been slicking up with so much oil it’s practically dripping with Hank’s intensive care, because it’s much easier to talk to Connor without looking him in the eye when all he can think about is the smooth curves of his body. “Dirty? You just took a bath there, in the river.”

“We could afford a trip to the bathhouse with the money we’d make, and take a real bath.”

Hank doesn’t reply to that, and Connor doesn’t try to push his luck further with small talk; they fall into amicable silence while Hank takes up cleaning another gun, and while Connor basks in the midday sun, sprawled on the boulder he was sitting on, trying to get his hair to dry as fast as it can. Hank’s face stays intense for as long as he works, his features scrunched up in a perpetual frown Connor finds a bit scary, and he knows better than to ask about it, lest he says something inappropriate again.

“Sorry,” Hank says, when he has no more guns to slick up and no other excuse not to talk to Connor, “About last night. I shouldn’t have gotten angry at you like that, alright. But you shouldn’t stick your nose where it doesn’t belong; don’t go asking men about their past.”

Connor smiles at him, wide and tight lipped, before he nods in understanding. ”It’s okay. Apology accepted. I’m sorry, too.”

Hank isn’t sure what to say next; he’s put off by Connor’s earnest tone when he accepts his poor excuse of an apology, and by the trust that makes Connor’s eyes shine in the bright early afternoon sun. He only has a handful of seconds before Connor notices he’s at a loss of words and no idea where to go from there — and he uses all of them to look, really  _look_ , at the dusting of freckles over his cheeks and at the light blush that brings them out.

“Well, kid,” he says, finally, and he can see Connor’s expression turn annoyed when he uses the nickname, “If we’re gonna rob that bank, you’re gonna have to learn how to shoot a gun first.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you came here for the smut, i’m so sorry, but i swear i’ll make it up to you in the next chapter, which is going to be considerably more idiotic and considerably less tedious.  
> if you read all of this..... well, thank you. and if you’re interested, you can find me on twitter at @cuteroboboy, which i don’t use much, but i’ll try to from now on. cheers!


	2. Chapter 2

Connor, as it turns out, is a very fast learner. He mimicks perfectly every last one of Hank’s movements, from the most obvious to the most minute, and he flawlessly picks up Hank’s ways in a matter or hours. Hank fleetingly thinks that Connor was _made_ for this kind of thing, handling guns with skills that would merge well with law work, but he’s quickly reminded that no one is made for anything when his brain supplies, helpfully, that he foolishly thought the same of himself, a few years back.

There’s something about Connor, something innate and intangible, but Hank can’t quite explain why he likes him; he could say he’s attracted by the more typically feminine parts of him, his frailty, his generosity, but that would be a lie, because Connor’s appeal lies in the very way he goes about his masculinity. Call it attraction, or call it stupidity, Hank can’t bring himself to resist the impulse to plaster his broad body to Connor’s own smaller one, with the flimsy excuse that he’s noticed his posture is off, if only ever so slightly; he tenderly moves Connor’s torso to stand straighter, his big hand contrasting painfully with the almost-petite and sinewy figure under him. Connor smiles then, and Hank thinks that he sees the subtlest tinge of timid pink on his cheeks, though for all that Hank knows, it might be due to all the sunbathing and the effort of running around to position cans and bottles on tree logs — and yet, rationalizing does nothing to Hank, as he entertains himself with thoughts of Connor while he watches the real deal impeccably shoot his way through three glass bottles and two tin cans, or alternatively what would be five very still, very small people in an hypothetical gunfight scenario.

“Good job, Connor,” Hank says, and gives him a pat on the back for good measure — the gesture and praise is much appreciated, if the way Connor’s face brightens up and mouth goes slack for a brief second is anything to go by. It makes speaking words of praise all the better, to see Connor react so openly to them, shyly turning his head to hide his bashful smile, and Hank thinks that he would go to uncharacteristically long lengths to make sure he had the chance to see the same exact corner of Connor’s mouth twitch the same way again.

Early afternoon turns into late afternoon turns into evening, and Connor watches as Hank goes through his routine of lighting up the fire and tossing a can of something he calls dinner, but that is hardly proper food, his way. The movements come easy now; there’s a certain domesticity despite having been only a handful of days since Hank picked Connor up, and despite Connor having practically no knowledge on living in camps, or living with other people who aren’t family, for all that matters.

Dinner is uneventful; mostly everything is, with Hank. Connor wonders if the monotony doesn’t tire him, if he doesn’t yearn for something else, for something more, for something that is out _there_ and not within the enclosed perimeter of where the campfire light shines. One could argue that robbing a bank surely would qualify as _putting yourself out there_ , but Connor thinks he means it in a more _knowing people, travelling for the sake of it_ -kind of way.

“We should go into town,” Connor says with a tender smile, “To celebrate.”

“What’s there to celebrate?”

“Our last day here, for one.”

“You shoot a few fucking cans one afternoon and you think you’re ready for mayhem,” Hank says with just enough malice to wound Connor’s pride slightly, “You shouldn’t get cocky, Connor.”

Connor wonders if Hank’s right — or if he should counter with some sort of defense, but Hank’s obstinate and it ultimately wouldn’t do much good, and he settles for standing up, brushing the dirt from his pants, and sliding his boots on his feet. “The hell are you doing?” is the exact reaction from Hank he’d hoped he’d get.

“Going into town,” Connor says nonchalantly, “You’re welcome to come with me, if you like.”

“You’ll just get yourself into trouble again if you go alone,” Hank says as he also rises to his feet, albeit with considerably more strain, “Fucking Hell. Let’s go.”

The town saloon is as squalid as it was when they were there for business — _illegal gambling_. It makes Connor somewhat sad and nostalgic to see the ratty wallpaper come off at the corners, the chipped wood of the tables giving patrons splinters, the smell of sweat coming from men and women dancing in couples to the lousy, loud music; or he’s sad, until Hank slaps a hand on his back and flashes him a kind, encouraging smile that somehow brightens his evening, and together they make their way across the place and towards the barkeep.

It’s not that Connor expects the fun to begin by chance, adventure dropping from the sky and on their head like some Manna from Heaven of sorts, but regardless he idly wonders what it would be like, were his night out different — different from downing a couple of glasses of unnamed, foul liquor, courtesy of the few coins Hank still had on his person, and different from being crowded by a few questionable men in a back-alley near the saloon he’d been in the second he steps outside to catch a breath of fresh air, or as fresh as air can be when it reeks of manure and mud.

Just his luck.

A moment of lucidity brings him the realization that to get out safely of this predicament he’s found himself in, it’s going to take a lot more than some convincing and heartfelt pleading — Connor can tell the men don’t really believe he doesn’t have any money, or anything else to give them if not his clothes, which aren’t even his to begin with.

He feels himself fall to his knees, but the punch to the back of his head he’s anticipating never comes, and neither does some demeaning remark or another request to give up his belongings; he turns his gaze around with watery eyes to meet with a tall figure clutching the collar of one of his attackers’ shirt — _Hank!_ , he realizes — in time to see his fist collide with the underside of the man’s chin, the left side of his jaw and his lower stomach in rapid succession, as many times as it takes for the man to stop struggling and for his friends to get a feel of what would happen to them if they were to get in Hank’s way.

“C’mon, Connor,” Hank says, as he lets go of the collar of the man’s shirt and lets him assess the damage to his teeth done by the punches, lets him fall to his knees and his henchmen surround him to help, “We’re leaving.”

At camp, Connor supposes he should apologize for cajoling Hank into following him, for making him waste his money on getting him only slightly tipsy, and for having to be rescued by him yet again; he’s silent, though, as he runs the damp, clean cloth over his bruised and slightly scraped knuckles with utmost care, the look on his face concentrated and reverent in embarrassment and awe alike. The feeling of Hank’s broad hand in his is foreign, yet not unwelcome as are the look of mild discomfort on Hank’s face and the pinkish hue Hank’s cheek have taken to blush; Connor can’t stop himself before he shyly bows his head, clutching Hank’s hand still despite having already cleaned and medicated it best he could, and says, “Thank you, Hank,” and hopes it suffices as an apology as well.

Hank huffs, and his shoulders sag with relaxation as he says, with his head also turned away from Connor’s blinding sincerity, “Don’t mention it.”

Want does not give Connor an excuse to keep holding Hank’s hand, and so he disentangles their fingers to rest his hands atop his own thighs. Hank’s features shift momentarily into an expression Connor reads as sadness; his brain is quick to supply the idea that he’s perhaps just projecting his own feelings onto Hank, and brushes the thought aside with a well-timed, bright smile. “Perhaps we should have considered bounty hunting as an option before considering bank robbing.”

“And risk our lives for what, twenty dollars?” Hank’s brow furrows in bewilderment, “Are you out of your mind?”

“No,” and Connor seems genuinely offended at Hank’s question, “Why would you say that?”

“Because you’re fucking green, Connor. There ain’t no damn way we could have caught any criminal with you not being able to shoot a gun if your life depended on it.”

“I’m plenty capable to. And furthermore, is robbing a bank not as dangerous, Hank?”

Hank runs his good hand over his face, pinches the bridge of his nose — he’ll give it to Connor, he’s obstinate. What he lacks in ability to see the bigger picture, he makes up with the enthusiasm he puts in countering every single thing Hank says. “No, dealing with the law is different. They’d rather catch you alive, have the whole town watch you swing when they hang you, then pat themselves on the shoulder for doing a fucking good job. And that’s assuming the lawmen even find you; let me tell you, they aren’t always the smartest out of the bunch.”

“How would you know that?”

“Jesus Christ, Connor,” Hank’s shouting now, and Connor can hear the flapping of wings of birds disturbed by the ruckus flying away in the background, “You gotta stop second guessing every fucking thing I say. I know because I was a lawman myself. Happy? That gonna shut you up?”

Connor is indeed silent after that, but he would have been regardless of Hank’s rhetorical question. He’s speechless; he hadn’t meant to pry, but with Hank’s sudden outburst he feels overwhelmed by the realization that this is the first real piece of information he’s gotten about him and his life. “Can I ask you a personal question, Hank?” is what Connor says after a moment has passed and neither of them has moved, uncertain still whether Hank is going to answer positively or not.

“Let me guess, you wanna know why I quit and became an outlaw.”

“… Correct.”

“Well, tough luck, Connor,” Hank says, disentangling his hand from Connor’s soft grip — Connor blushes an embarrassed rosy pink when he notices their hands and fingers had found the way to grow intertwined again — and making to lay his jacket on the ground in a makeshift bed once more, “It’s bedtime.”

“But —”

“No buts,” Hank says, from where he also lays on the ground, before turning and giving Connor his back, “Can’t have you get distracted tomorrow. ‘Night.”

Connor’s nerves make him count the stars he sees from an opening in the trees to fall asleep, before he at last is launched into a fitful few hours of rest, which tire him more than relax him.

* * *

The streets of the town are as deserted as they have been in the few days Hank and Connor had the pleasure to roam them, and if there is ever such a thing as a good time to rob a bank, both guess it would be then, mid-week, under the scorching hot sun of early May, and in a town neither of them is likely to ever visit again.

The town bank is a decrepit little building, as decrepit as the rest of the town, really, sitting just a little off the center of the town, somehow positioned in the perfect place to run away in a hurry from. The wood it’s made of looks rotten, the paint “Bank” is written on it faded, the hitching post in front of it couldn’t hold a horse to it if it tried to and the trough near it is dry, save for the few drops of green mixture that is more algae than it is water. Connor feels the dread creep up his back in the form of a light sweat, then, at the realization; that this is not a rich town, and he is taking from the poor for no other reason that he’s too impatient to get his hands on money to work for it honestly like any other, better man would. “Stealing from the rich’s no different,” Hank says like he’s a voice of reason of some sort, “Let’s just get this over with.”

They leave Sumo in an alley by the bank, away from prying eyes, and ready for a quick escape. Hank pats him briefly, apologetic in the look he gives him and the sweet words of praise he mutters, before retrieving two smaller pistols and giving them both over to Connor: he looks more intimidating when dual-wielding, regardless of whether he can actually shoot both guns at once, Hank decides, before making to grab his shotgun. He touches his hand to the bandana around his neck, and he plasters himself to the wall behind his back before telling Connor, “We stick to the plan, alright? No funny shit.”

Connor simply nods before pulling up the bandana of his own and saying, “Got it.”

Hank then peers in a small window on his left, and Connor’s shoulders heave with a sigh of contentedness when Hank gives him a thumbs up and says, “Good, the clerk’s the only person in there.”

It takes but a split second for them to barge in through the door — Connor taking care to close it behind himself, too, ever the perfectionist — and for Hank to shout, muffled by the cloth covering his face, “Sir, this is a robbery, put your hands where I can see them!”

The clerk is a small man with the face of a mouse and a pair of small spectacles perched on the bridge of his nose. He stands behind his desk like it provides safe shelter when it’s just barely tall enough to cover his lower stomach, and Hank feels some sort of contempt at the helpless way the man has about himself — he tries to make a run for it, but Connor is faster in coming up behind him and whacking him across the head with the butt of one of the guns he’s holding, knocking him out cold for the time being. Connor is worried Hank is going to be mad for deviating from the plan, until he feels a hand pat his back amicably, and Hank’s soothing voice saying, “Good call. Now let’s get to work.”

Connor is pleased to notice that the interior of the bank is a tad nicer than the outside; none of the intricate ornaments, luxurious carpeting and wallpaper and beautiful paintings he’s used to, but what little furniture is inside doesn’t look _entirely_ chewed through by termites, and the safe behind the counter looks sturdy enough to at least give a sense of security, though that proves to be a mere façade once Hank shoots it clean open with a well-placed bullet. Inside the safe isn’t much money — or there isn’t much of it by bank standards, because it sure is a lot to Hank to hold crisp bills in a two hundred dollars stack, when for the better part of his life he’s exclusively handled smaller coins. Connor smiles at Hank, then, genuine and spontaneous, and wider than Hank’s ever seen him smile.

The excitement, however, turns out to be short-lived; Hank barely has time to shove the bills inside his pocket before the door to the bank is kicked open once more by a spurred boot-clad foot, and a sun-kissed man, considerably shorter than both Hank and Connor but with enough confidence and self assurance to make up for what he lacks in height, steps inside, a cocky smirk on his lips and in a playful voice lined with a slight accent he says, “¿Que pasa? There was a party and nobody told me about it?”

Hank rolls his eyes, and points the barrel of his shotgun right at the man’s head, before saying, “Fuck, no. Not you.”

The man doesn’t raise his arms like a man in his position should, but rather his hands snake upwards his thighs to the holsters that lay hanging low on his hips, taking up a defensive stance with a firm hold on the handle of his guns. He is smirking still; Connor finds that above all, that is what he hates most about the man. “Is that any way of saying hi to an old friend?”

“You’re no friend,” Hank says, adjusting his grip on his shotgun like he’s saying _I won’t hesitate to shoot_ , “The Hell do you want?”

“Payback for this,” and he points to a deep scar on the bridge of his nose, “They’re offering quite the sum for your head, Hank.”

“So I punch you one time and you turn me in to the law? That’s low, even for a down-and-out like you.”

“We both know that’s not what happened,” the man says through gritted teeth. “I might reconsider for some of that,” and then he nods in the general direction of the safe and of Hank, able to tell what Hank’s hiding in his pocket, which wasn’t hard to guess to begin with, given that the bank clerk lies unconscious on the floor still, the safe open and Connor and Hank stand attentive holding their guns.

Connor feels paralyzed with confusion; he can tell Hank clearly holds the higher ground in this, that if he were to pull the trigger now they could make a run for it, and there would be no way of proving they were ever even there. And yet Hank seems to have some sort of history with the man which keeps him from killing him in cold blood, but Connor can’t say that it bothers him that Hank isn’t a ruthless killer and that he still holds some honor to his person in refusing to kill a _friend_.

It’s then, in the tension-filled silence, that Connor notices, glancing quickly outside the window that peers out the front of the bank, that someone is coming; the feud between Hank and the man seems irrelevant and petty, when there is the very real threat of them being found out to take into consideration. “Uhm, Hank,” Connor steps closer to him, holding his guns in the air and pointed at the man still, “I think we should go.”

“Nuh-uh,” the man singsongs, “You ain’t going anywhere.”

“I think you should leave as well,” Connor says, panicking slightly as the figure outside walks closer and closer to the bank, “Come with us. We’ll settle this once we’re far from here.”

The man agrees without further prying — albeit running his mouth with the added fun factor of colorful, vulgar language and speaking his mind on Connor and Hank and what he thinks he knows about their relationship all the while — and Connor is thankful for that as they all run through the backdoor and to their horses, hopping on the back of the ever faithful Sumo, and leaving the town galloping horseback.

The man doesn’t stop talking all throughout their ride, unprompted at that, and Connor learns more about him than he’d care for; the man, as it unsurprisingly turns out, is overly self-confident in bragging about his killings, his jobs as a bounty hunter, and the multitude of women he’s had fawning over him in his thirty-some years, to the point of arrogance and to the point Connor would do anything to make him stop talking there and then. “Mierda, how long has it been, huh, Hank?”

“Too short a time. I was hoping I’d never see you again.”

The man opens his mouth to retort, but Connor is quicker once he sees an opening to get rid of him quick, and he says, tugging gently at the shirt Hank’s wearing, “I think this spot will do. Let’s stop here.”

Connor and Hank end up parting with eighty dollars, thanks to Connor’s negotiation skills and Hank’s threats to shoot the man if he doesn’t take what money he’s given and scram, but neither of them is entirely happy until the man says with an obnoxious grin, “Thank you kindly,” and until the sound of hooves on terrain fades as they bask in the silence of nature.

“Interesting character,” Connor says, somewhat sarcastic, “What’s his name?”

“Gavin Reed.”

Connor gives Hank a quizzical look.

“It’s not his real name, if that’s what you’re asking. At least I don’t think so.”

“What is his real name, then?”

“Fuck if I know,” Hank says with a laugh as he helps Connor back on Sumo, “Fella like that doesn’t spill the truth about himself easily.”

* * *

Connor claps his hands together, a playful smile softening his features as he says, “I know what we should do now! Do you know a song?”

“Do _I_ know a song?” Hank says with pretend disbelief; he’s laughing when he clears his throat with a cough and begins, raising the hand he’s holding his half-full flask in in some exaggerated mockery of a theatrical gesture, “ _The years creep slowly by, Lorena, the snow is on the grass again_.”

Connor responds to his singing with a grin, scooting closer to Hank from where he’s sitting, closer so he can snatch the flask from Hank’s wavering hand, take a swift swig and pull a disgusted expression as he laughs and says, “Oh, I remember this one! _The sun’s low down the sky, Lorena, the frost gleams where the flowers have been_.”

What little moonshine they have left is not enough to get them drunk, yet regardless Connor feels moderately tipsy by the time the last drop of it runs down his throat. He lays with his back on the grass and looks at the open sky above him and he feels himself go a little dizzy at the vastness of it all; what anchors him to reality is Hank’s deep voice, busy with the last few verses of his song. _There is a future, oh thank God, of this life is so small a part. ‘Tis dust to dust beneath the sod, but there, up there, ‘tis heart to heart_. Connor’s mind wanders through space and time and he wonders when last he felt an emotion as strong as the happiness and fulfilment he feels then, laying on grass, only half drunk, listening to a man he barely knows anything about sing, and “keeping a low profile” while the law looks for them as per said man’s advice. 

“Can I ask you a personal question, Hank?” Connor says once he snaps out of his little reverie and notices Hank is silent.

“You don’t have to do that every time, you know, Connor. Just ask the damn question.”

“Why did you quit your job as a lawman?”

“You’re persistent, I’ll give you that.”

“Yes. I want to know you better.”

There’s a moment of silence during which Hank seems to ponder whether to answer Connor’s question or make up an excuse about how it’s late and they should sleep again, but then he gives a bitter laugh and says, “Ah, what the Hell, right? In a few days you’ll leave for Detroit and we’ll never see each other again, anyway.”

Connor keeps silent at that, lest he says anything that might change Hank’s mind on opening up with him, but something about Hank’s detached tone as he talks about parting from Connor that doesn’t sit right with him, and he turns his face to the sky once more to hide the mild discomfort that twists his face.

“I had a family, you know. A long time ago,” Hank says, fiddling with a few strands of grass, illuminated by the fire and the moon above them, “A wife and a kid. I was sheriff… we lived a pretty comfortable life. It was then that I met Gavin Reed, too.”

Hank is silent for a handful of minutes again after that, reminiscing, before he sighs, and with a pained expression he keeps on telling his story. “There was… an accident. No, nevermind — it was no accident. Millicent and Cole… they were killed. The idiot deputies couldn’t find the culprit… couldn’t do their fucking job. But I knew who it was. No damn way to prove it, though.”

“What did you do, then?” Connor asks, enrapt by the story.

“I wanted justice, you see,” Hank answers, “You can’t kill folk because you _think_ they committed murder. Even if you’re sheriff. But I thought… I thought the law was horseshit. That the people around me were horseshit. So I took the matter into my own hands… I killed the man, shot him in his home. Then I took Sumo, and ran. Never looked back. It seemed right at the time, and if I had to, I’d kill him again.”

There is an abyss of difference between pointing a gun to Gavin Reed _threatening_ to fire it, too, and actually killing the man who murdered your wife and son — Connor doesn’t feel fear or contempt for Hank, but sympathy, as he ponders morality and decides that he doesn’t resent Hank for what he’s done, or not entirely, at least. “I understand now why you saved me. Why you kept me around and helped me, even when you said you weren’t a good man.”

Hank scoffs. “Oh yeah? And why’s that?”

“Because I remind you of your son.”

Hank pulls a face then, but Connor can’t read it — though perhaps it looks like he’s torn between laughter and pain. “I apologize if I stepped out of line.”

“You didn’t,” Hank says, smiling a little, “I just don’t see it that way is all.”

“Why, then? You had no reason to.”

“Fuck, I don’t know. Guess I just like you, Connor.” The sincerity is offputting; Connor blushes and his ears ring, because in the few days he’s known Hank, he’s never been as open as he is then.

“Enough about me,” he touches his hand to Connor’s shoulder and shakes him with barely any force behind it, playful and not rough, “What’s your story?”

“My _story_ is not as interesting,” Connor says, patting the ground next to where he lays in a silent invitation to Hank to come lay with him, “I have a younger brother, he lives in Detroit with our mother still. He’s a mathematician. I call him Nines; nine is the highest single-digit number. He’s very smart.”

“Nines… what’s his real name?”

Connor shakes his head. “He doesn’t like people to know his name. I’m sure he’ll tell you, if one day you meet him.”

“And do you reckon that might happen?”

“Maybe,” Connor says, “I don’t know. But I wouldn’t rule it out entirely.” 

Hank turns his head towards Connor then, and when Connor also turns to look at him, he laughs, wide and loud; it makes Connor feel a little foolish for thinking Hank of all people would ever casually stop by Detroit to meet his brother. He has _no reason to_ , after all.

“We should sleep,” Hank says, rising to his feet with a considerable amount of effort, expected of a man his age, “It’s getting late.”

Together they lay down the bedroll — _Hank_ ’s bedroll, on which _Connor_ sleeps — on the ground, kicking the stones from underneath it in an attempt to make it more comfortable, and throw more wood in the fire to last throughout the night; Sumo seems content and satisfied with the carrots and apples he’s been fed earlier, and gives them no reason to feed him again.

In the pale moonlight, Hank is allowed to steal a handful quick glances Connor’s way, to the way his body moves gracefully as he takes his boots off — the poor visibility doesn’t tell Connor where exactly Hank is looking, and so he stares on at his attractive figure moving about. The strangely charming, involuntarily seductive way he carries himself — Hank watches all that from afar until Connor turns towards him to bid him goodnight.

Perhaps Hank is a fool, or perhaps an opportunist: as Connor smiles at him, a tight-lipped grin, Hank’s hands cannot resist the impulse to grab his shirt the left, and his cheek the right, and to pull him closer until in the blink of an eye Connor’s lips find themselves on Hank’s; kissing him, Connor realizes belatedly, after his tongue has already made its way through his teeth with a will of his own, stopping short of licking over Hank’s lips.

Hank pulls his head back, then, and with it his body, fast like the touch of Connor’s body is scalding hot, and he runs a hand through his hair, unable to meet Connor’s eyes. “This was a mistake. Goodnight, Connor,” he says, in lieu of an explanation, and Connor feels a familiar dread twisting his gut when Hank doesn’t let him get another word in before laying on the grass, and giving him his back as he lets himself drift off to sleep.

* * *

Predictably, when Connor wakes up the next day, Hank pretends the night before didn’t happen, preferring the immature way of ignoring problems until they leave on their own accord rather than facing them head on, like it’s expected of a grown man. It hurts Connor to mount Sumo and sit behind Hank in silence as they ride towards their next hideout, lacking the spontaneous small talk they used to make before.

“Can we —” Connor begins, but is immediately shut down by Hank interrupting.

“No,” Hank says, “We can’t.”

“You don’t even know what I was going to say.”

“Yes, I fucking do. You were gonna ask if we can talk about what happened last night,” and he grows more irritated with every word, “I was drunk. That’s it. Now stop talking, will ya?” Connor complies, because he’s unsure what he would even say when he can’t even look Hank in the eye. 

He’s granted some time to think in solitude, then, by a stroke of sheer luck, when Sumo halts letting them dismount, and Hank drops a few dollars in his hand, a lot more than what he needs, for certain, telling him to meet him later, that he’s going to buy more supplies for the days to come, but to be quick, because it’s best they don’t stay in town for long. Soap should be first on the list of things to buy, Connor decides, because if Hank won’t leave him the time to go to a bathhouse, he should make the most out of what nature has to offer, and if washing himself in a river is it, then he should at least allow himself the simple pleasure of a thorough cleansing. 

The town itself isn’t much different from the one they were at before it, or from any other countryside town for all that matters, if not for the simpler design of the buildings and the less intricate layout of roads and alleyways, though Connor supposes that’s due to the smaller population that makes for a town with a considerably smaller amount of houses and shops than others. The townsfolk seem nice enough; Connor doesn’t interact with anyone aside from a few of the shopkeepers. The man at the general store is nice enough to wish him a good day when he leaves, and the tailor surprisingly has clothes in his size ready for other clients, which he sells Connor when he mentions that he won’t be in town if not for just a few hours, that he desperately needs clothes, and the tailor decides he can make up an excuse as to why the work for his other patrons isn’t ready later, because the money Connor offers for it is too good to pass up on. Connor then smiles at the man as he leaves the shop, and is perfectly on time when meeting Hank back at the post they hitched Sumo.

Not a word as they run, again. Connor feels like he’s back to square one, or square zero if such a thing ever existed, as Hank keeps silent, though his expression is so focused and sour, Connor thinks he can hear his thoughts running around his head, if he listen closely, but he can’t even begin to guess what Hank is really thinking about. And if the bumps in the uneven road give him a chance to hold tighter onto Hank and to slide his body closer to Hank’s own, he takes it; teasing Hank into talking might be a little childish, though childish seems to work the best on him, and so Connor glues himself to Hank’s back in an attempt to at least get some reaction out of him.

Connor’s very pleased when his request to camp in a place near water is met; they light a fire off the main track and near a small puddle of water, which seems clean for the most part, or at least clean enough for Connor to bathe in, and come out looking a little less muddy and dirty then he did before going in. What really surprises him is Hank asking if he can borrow the bar of soap, when Connor’s sitting in front of the campfire to dry, to go wash himself as well, quickly before the sun sets and the dusk brings forth the nightly chill in the air; Connor complies and hands the bar over with a pleasant smile, to which Hank doesn’t respond with a smile of his own, but with a brusque and muttered, “Thank you.”

Perhaps he should really let it go, and give Hank the satisfaction of playing into his little self-deprecating game; Connor wonders over dinner — eating something that isn’t canned beans, hear hear. But he does like Hank, the aloof sort of aura he has to his person and the unintentional, innate charisma, that he cannot deny, and the kiss had felt liberating, in a way, in the sense that it had let Connor’s feelings come to light; Connor’s naïve but he’s not an idiot, and he realizes that while he may choose to live his life differently from others, that doesn’t necessarily apply to all other men he finds attractive, and he lucked out the second this particular one decided to take the first step, as stubborn as he is in not owning up to it.

Connor clears his throat with a light cough, and sets his copper plate aside — another surprising, but welcome, addiction to their party. “I want to talk to you.”

“Fuck it, I’m outta here,” Hank says, and he makes to get up from his seat on the tree log, probably to wander off somewhere until later in the night when Connor’s already asleep — Connor doesn’t let him, and he’s swifter in taking a hold of his wrist than Hank is in leaving.

“No,” Connor says, calmly, “I’ve grown tired of you ignoring my feelings. I’m not a doll you can play with, Hank. You will listen to me, now.”

That does bring Hank back to his sitting position, and it stings too, as Connor looks up at him with _sad_ written all over his face; a look Hank hopes to never be the cause of, or see, ever again. “Alright, let’s hear what you have to say.”

“Thank you,” Connor seems somewhat relieved, like he’d expected getting Hank to pay attention to be more difficult — Hank can’t blame him, not really — and he sighs, closes his eyes before continuing, “I will start by saying that against all odds, I also like you.”

“Against all odds?” Hank scoffs, a little offended, “And who told you I —”

“Please, kindly let me finish,” Connor reprimands him, “Yes, I like you. I want to get to know you better. And I wish you’d be honest with me about your feelings.”

“Listen, Connor. Last night… I don’t know what got into me, okay? I don’t like you.”

“If I was any different a man,” Connor says in a slow voice, “I could report you to the law. You could be arrested for what you did.”

Hank nods at that, rendered speechless at the acknowledgement that Connor definitely could do that to him, and any other man in their right mind would. “What do you want me to do?”

Connor’s eyes open then, and it’s unsettling when they meet Hank’s own and don’t waver for a second in holding their gaze. “Tell me the truth. Please.”

“… Fuck, okay. I like you, Connor.”

Connor doesn’t register he’s moving, at first, because every muscle in his body lunges forward on its own accord, fast with his hands when clutching the fabric of Hank’s shirt, and fast with his lips when closing the distance between them and Hank’s own in a kiss, this one considerably more pleasurable than their first one, without the burden of undiscussed feelings weighing on their shoulders. Connor kisses Hank with enthusiasm and passion; Hank, on the other hand, responds to the eagerness with pats to the small of Connor’s back, which he hopes encourage him in scooting forward with his thighs and sitting closer to him in his lap.

Hank knows he’s not an unattractive man; many ladies have told him that themselves before, and only few of them were paid to do so. He knows he’s not half bad at flirting either, and he’s had his fair share of women swoon over him. He’s had a few partners in his life other than Millicent, some of which he’s more proud than others, and none of them have ever addressed him as a man lacking charm or personality. But as Connor takes off his shirt to reveal the milky white skin underneath it, speckled in a thousand little moles, Hank realizes that all _he_ is pales in comparison to what _Connor_ is; the reverent way he looks up at Hank through his long lashes, a pretty, pink blush dusting his cheeks, and the way his kiss-bitten lips glow red in the campfire light — Hank’s rough appeal cannot even begin to match that.

Hank kisses him, again, and again, until he has to stop for Connor to slide his shirt over his head, ruffling his hair slightly, and then he kisses Connor some more, with the fervor or a man hydrating himself after weeks of desert-induced thirst, or more simply put, with the fervor of a man who has been lusting over his handsome companion ever since he’s met him, and if “ever since” stands for “a handful of days,” Hank is too busy running his palm over the fair expanse of skin that is Connor’s back to care. Connor likes it, too, to have Hank touch him all over; he definitely wasn’t lying when he told Hank he liked him, if the slight tent in his new pants is anything to go by.

Treading lightly onto uncharted territory, Hank runs an experimental touch upwards Connor’s thigh, and Connor practically sings with it, an harmonious and delightful little sound that spurs Hank forward as he touches the tip of his fingers to Connor, clothed still so that the sensation is somewhat easier to bear and too little yet at the same time, but he stops when Connor shakes his head, and moves to kneel inbetween Hank’s legs.

By law, sodomy is illegal — it’s an entirely different matter, the one at hand, with Connor’s lithe fingers pulling down Hank’s trousers just enough for his cock to come out of his drawers, and enough for Connor’s tongue to lick up the length of it, before taking it in his hand to steady it and saying, “It’s my first time doing… This,” and he nods towards the general direction of Hank’s crotch, too embarrassed to call it by its name, “Please, be gentle with me.”

It’s really hard not to, because being rough with Connor is the closest thing to kicking a puppy you can do to a human; the earnest look in his eyes as he fits Hank’s entire cock in his mouth — an impressive feat in and of itself, given its length and girth — makes the praise Hank spews come out of his mouth almost by itself, and before he realizes it, he’s lovingly carding a hand through Connor’s messy hair, repeatedly telling him how _fucking good_ he’s being, and internally thanking Connor for having the foresight to buy soap when they visited town. Connor works his mouth with a precision that makes Hank wonder how he can be this amazing at something he’s never tried doing before, and he’s reminded of Connor handling his guns earlier that week, the skillful way he had of taking down can after can, shooting bullet after bullet, the attractive form of his body as he raised an arm and took aim — the body that now sits in front of him, on its knees.

Connor’s thorough in everything he does, painfully so as he lavishes every part of Hank his mouth can reach with lovely attention, peppering it with quick, teasing kisses or playful kitten licks; Hank, though, can’t even be mad, when the velvety give of Connor’s mouth makes for the best sensation he’s ever felt in his entire life, and he finds it easy to tell him so, but hard to hold back from thrusting his hips forward and his cock further into Connor’s mouth. The slippery feel of Connor’s saliva drooling from his open mouth down his chin — Hank believes that’s downright divine, and blasphemy is the furthest thing from his mind when he says, “Good fuckin’ Lord, Connor, that’s— That’s right— So good, Connor.”

When Hank feels his orgasm coming, he thankfully has the foresight of pushing Connor’s head away just slightly, enough for his dick to drop from Connor’s parted lips — the string of spit and semen connecting the two, Hank thinks it’s the most alluring sight in the world, second only to the soft curves of Connor’s body — as he spills over Connor’s face, only narrowly missing his right eye when the bliss gets the better of his aim. And it’s only a matter of time before Hank tucks himself back into his trousers and Connor immediately spots the opening to throw himself back onto his lap, his knees stained with the damp dirt Connor knelt on, and he runs a hand up and down Hank’s chest as he begs, grasping his forearm, “Please, touch me, too.”

Connor’s cock is significantly smaller than Hank’s, pink and pretty and hard, and it’s endearing to see how Hank’s big hand covers the most part of its length, and wraps all around its width effortlessly, but what most has Hank enthralled is the way Connor squeezes his eyes shut and bites on his fingers to keep silent as Hank tenderly, but slowly strokes him. Connor tries to keep silent, Hank can tell that he does try, but he fails the moment Hank slips his hand out of his mouth to kiss the adroit fingers and caress them with his own; it’s a crescendo of moans of some sort, from when Connor’s mouth springs free to when Hank realizes that what Connor needs is, essentially, _more_ , and Hank does give him as much in the form of quicker and harder strokes, keeping at it until Connor paints his stomach white, and slugs forward and onto Hank’s shoulder.

Breathe in, breathe out, Hank reminds himself as he comes down from the flurry of excitement that makes his heart beats fast in his chest and his vision cloud; Connor also breathes deeply from where he’s laying on Hank, and with every breath his body rattles uncomfortably because of the sticky feeling of drying semen. Hank’s hand rubs soothing circles on Connor’s back in a silent invitation to get up from the tree log they’re sitting on and to follow him to the nearby pond to wash off at least most of the dirt they have on themselves; all of Connor’s response comes in a grunt, muffled against Hank’s shoulder, and a loving but tired caress of Connor’s own on Hank’s arm.

“I want to keep running with you,” Connor says, honest and jarringly so, as he struggles to part from Hank’s heated body to stand on his feet. Hank laughs, before kissing the top of Connor’s head, and saying, “Well, we’ll have to find you a horse, then.”

* * *

It’s not by chance that one day, while riding, Hank and Connor find themselves in close proximity of Detroit; it doesn’t take a lot of begging on Connor’s behalf, either, for Hank to agree to stop by where Connor used to live, to meet his brother Nines.

Detroit is by far the most crowded, most lively place Hank has ever been to, and he has Sumo trot to match the pace of Connor and his horse — to which for some reason, unknown to Hank, Connor gave the name of Coin — in an attempt to not get lost in the labyrinth that is the city. 

The Stern household thankfully sits just out of range from the hustle and bustle of the city; walls a calming white and window fixtures a nice shade of light blue, the three storey house is surrounded by a neatly-kept garden, in which Hank spies various bushes of well-tended to red roses, but with no gardener in sight. Hank stares on at it with a longing for a time when he had a place to call home himself.

Connor dismounts Coin, asking Hank to please wait for him outside the gate, promising that he won’t be long, and that he’ll bring Nines out to meet him; Hank nods in response, and Connor disappears on the other side of the fence.

Hank passes the time humming to himself the notes to a song, and busies himself with petting Sumo’s unruly mane as he waits, and waits, and waits. The minutes seem to by slower than ever when Connor’s not around with his chatter to keep him company, Hank thinks, growing more and more tired with standing as he takes to counting the leaves on the branches of a nearby bush, a plant Hank doesn’t recognize.

Ultimately, it’s the squeaky sound of the pristine metal gate being opened that snaps Hank out of his thoughts, and he turns to see Connor and a man almost identical to him, but by far more stoic and impassible and with eyes a different color, creep out. Hank opens his mouth to introduce himself, even extends his hand out for the man he supposes is Nines to shake, but Connor briskly cuts him off before he can say anything, hurriedly pushing Nines and the bag he’s holding onto Coin, before mounting himself, by saying, “No time for pleasantries. We have to run, before Mother notices he’s gone. Mount your horse, Hank.”

 _Well_ , Hank thinks, as he also gets back onto Sumo and sends him into full galloping, further and further from Connor’s house with every step, _good things all come in threes_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow... this sure was something to write. took quite the toll on me and ended up with my longest fic to date and possibly the one with the most dialogue.  
> friendly reminder that i'm on twitter at [@cuteroboboy](http://twitter.com/cuteroboboy) heh... i like connor and making friends!  
> P.S.: look out for a possible G9 spin off of this au...


End file.
